


Atlas

by R_S_B



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multiple Canon Character Deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22062340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_S_B/pseuds/R_S_B
Summary: Chrisjen has always borne a heavy weight on her shoulders.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	Atlas

> My father used to keep a statue of Atlas on his desk. He told me I had even stronger shoulders than him. I was six.
> 
> _Let me guess. It's still on your desk - to inspire you every day._
> 
> No. I smashed it when my son was killed. The point is, I didn't quit.

\- Chrisjen Avasarala to James Holden, Triple Point

1\. 

Chrisjen Avasarala was six years old, padding quietly and confidently down the dark hallway, navigating easily around the piles of posters and other campaign paraphernalia that littered the house. In the dark, she could just barely make out the words on the signs, but she knew what they said by heart. 

_A vote for Avasarala is a vote for values!_

_Doing what’s best for Maharashtra families!_

The results had finally been announced a few days ago. He’d won, a narrow upset over the incumbent, and once this initial round of celebratory appearances were over, she was looking forward to seeing a bit more of her father, at least for a little while, before his term started. But right now, she was just thirsty. 

She was nearly to the kitchen when she heard something unexpected: noises coming from her father’s office. A slim line of light escaped from the bottom of the door. 

_Papa’s home!_

Chrisjen’s face lit up in joy and she ran towards the room. It was no secret how much Chrisjen adored her father. Even at her young age, he was already encouraging her, molding her, and she basked in his attention. It was her greatest aspiration that when she grew up, she would be just like him. 

She was about to throw open the door and run in when she hesitated. _Maybe he was doing something important._ She didn’t want to interrupt anything important. Pressing her ear against the door, she tried to make out what was going on on the other side. She heard the scrape of a chair on the wood floor, and she heard her father’s voice. It was soft and low, not the ringing tone he used in speeches or in meetings. She saw him in her mind, sitting in his chair, shuffling papers at his desk, and muttering to himself about all the very important things he had to do. 

She pushed open the door. 

Her heart swelled as her eyes found her father, sitting in the chair by his desk, just as expected. Then her stomach dropped and she felt dizzy and confused. He sat to the side, staring not at his desk, but at his lap. A woman Chrisjen didn’t recognize was kneeling on the floor in front of him, face between his thighs. Her suit jacket lay in a heap on the floor, and her skirt rode up high on her thighs. She was making noises that Chrisjen didn’t understand, and her head bobbed up and down. Her father’s hand laid on the woman’s head, and the noises he made were pleased, encouraging. 

Chrisjen felt nauseous without being able to explain exactly why. All she knew was that this was wrong. Something she wasn’t supposed to see. 

But she couldn’t look away. She was frozen, hand still on the doorknob, when she made a noise between a gasp and a squeak. 

Her father looked up, surprise and worry freezing on his face. He tried to stand, one hand tugging his pants back up while he reached out with the other one. “Chrisjen,” he began, “it’s not--” Then he overbalanced, falling against the desk, arm knocking into the statute of Atlas he kept there. It fell over, rolling perilously towards the edge, and he cursed, attention shifting to catch it before it fell. 

Chrisjen fled, forgetting she’d gotten up for water, and raced back to her bedroom, where she crawled under her covers and hid. She wasn’t sure if she expected her father to follow her or not, but the need to escape, to hide from what she’d seen, was overpowering. 

Her father didn’t follow her and Chrisjen lay in bed alone, unable to sleep for a long time.

In the morning, she came to the kitchen for breakfast, and he was there, kissing her mother on the cheek and acting like nothing had happened. Papa seemed unconcerned, but Chrisjen was scared, terrified on his behalf. Chrisjen didn’t understand how he could act so normal. It make the whole thing seem like a bad dream. Maybe she imagined it. 

Chrisjen didn’t know what to do, so she busied herself with her food and tried not to look at her parents. After breakfast, she was glad for the distraction of piano and french lessons, but after lunch her father appeared, offering to take her out for kulfi. Chrisjen still felt uncomfortable, but she said “yes.“

She’d never told her father “no.“

He was so nice for the whole trip, nicer than she could remember him ever being. When they got to the kulfiwalas vendor, he got her a pistachio kulfi, her favorite, and when he handed it to her, he leaned down and whispered, “You’re not going to say anything, right?” 

Chrisjen’s stomach twisted unpleasantly but took the kulfi from him and nodded silently. Then he smiled broadly and clapped her on the shoulder. “You have stronger shoulders than Atlas, little one.” 

They never spoke of it again. Chrisjen had been told all her life how much she should want to be like him, to follow in his footsteps. She had thought, assumed, in what suddenly seemed like such babyish naivete, that she was supposed to be like her father because he was good. But that day she realized that she had been wrong. She was supposed to be like her father because he was powerful. 

So Chrisjen kept her promise, never telling her mother what she had seen. 

Because she wanted to be strong. Like her father. 

2\. 

Chrisjen Avasarala was twenty-eight years old, watching her father take his place at the podium, greeting the assembled crowd. The weather was sweltering, but he looked cool, smiling enthusiastically at he waved at those gathered. Chrisjen stood to the side of the stage, and she grinned nervously and wrung her hands. She’d helped him prepare for the speech, had edited his remarks after the speech-writers had been done with it, and she eagerly anticipated its reception. There were others milling backstage, various members of his staff, as well as his security detail. There was security posted at each door and at the front of each side of the stage. She knew there were others posted at strategic points in the crowd. 

He was greeted with a raucous din of cheers, which he made a show of trying to modestly wave down. Then, as the roar began to wane, one of the guards darted onto the stage, pulling his gun out as he ran. Chrisjen’s first impulse was to look for the threat. But as she furiously scanned the crowd, she didn’t see anything. The entire crowd went silent, and with a sinking twist, she realized what she was seeing. 

The guard let out an inarticulate cry as he began to fire, spraying bullets in the direction of the podium. The first few shots went wide, then her father jerked - one, two, three times - as bullets hit their mark. She watched, as if in slow motion, as her father collapsed, hitting the floor with a thick, heavy thud. 

There was screaming everywhere, the crowd swirling as they tried to flee. Chrisjen launched herself headlessly in the direction of her father, only to find herself painfully seized by the arms and hauled off the stage. The guards were yelling at her but she couldn’t understand what they were saying. She struggled ineffectually against their grip. As they pulled her out of view of her father, she saw other guards taking out the shooter. His blood splattered the stage and he fell at her father’s feet. Dimly, Chrisjen realized she was screaming. 

Above, she heard the hum of the medical transport. Somehow, her urgency increased. She pulled again against the grip of the guards. “I have to go with him!”

“No! It’s too dangerous!” they yelled. “We have to get you to a safe place.”

Chrisjen gritted her teeth and sneered. “If you don’t let me on that fucking transport, you useless pieces of human excrement, I will cut off your balls and serve them to your mothers.” The guards blinked in astonishment, one of them with his mouth open in stunned surprise, and the brief moment of hesitation was enough for Chrisjen to push past them. 

The paramedics were loading her father onto the transport as she ran in. She nearly tripped over her feet and blood smeared the bottom of her sari. She reached the gurney her father had been lain on and she reached for his hand, walking with him as he was loaded into the transport. He groaned weakly. “Papa!” she cried. “Papa, I’m here. You’re going to be okay.” 

He didn’t respond except to cough, and blood sprayed from him mouth and dripped down his chin. Chrisjen winced. 

The transport lifted off as soon as he was secure, and the paramedics continued their work, hooking up an IV and administering something by an injection to his shoulder. His breathing eased a little and he squeezed her hand. He coughed a little again. “Bubbles,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’m so proud of you. Tell… your mother, I love her. It’s… it’s your… ”

Chrisjen shook her head. “Stop it,” she hissed. “You are going to be fine.” She squeezed his hand more tightly. “Everything’s going to be fucking fine.” 

For a moment, it was as though her father wasn’t in the middle of an assassination attempt, and he glared at her disapprovingly. “Chrisjen, don’t talk like that,” he admonished. “It’s unprofessional.” 

Chrisjen glared back as she fought tears. A single sob escaped her mouth. “I’ll _fucking_ talk however the _fuck_ I want to.” 

Her father laughed, then he coughed again and winced. 

He didn’t speak again after that and Chrisjen held his hand in worried silence until they arrived at the hospital. They wheeled him into surgery and Chrisjen was suddenly alone and adrift in the corridor of the hospital, her hands and her sari splattered with blood. She took a deep breath and tried to assure herself that he would be fine, but she did a poor job. It didn’t look good and she knew it. She pulled her hand terminal from a fold in her dress, surprised to find a dozen messages already there. More than half were from her mother and Chrisjen’s heart clenched in her chest. She hadn’t even noticed her hand terminal pinging, she’d been so focused on her father. 

For a moment Chrisjen had to pinch the bridge of her nose to keep the tears at bay. Then she opened up her hand terminal and called her mother. 

* * *

Chrisjen hated every second of the funeral. Security had to form a tight perimeter to ensure the safety of the guests and there was a media presence, keeping a barely respectful distance from the mourners. Several local politicians took the opportunity to speak, loudly decrying the act of terrorism that had taken her father. To Chrisjen, it felt like a barely concealed attempt to score some political points in the face of her family’s tragedy. Inside, she was seething. 

Next to her, her mother cried loudly, but Chrisjen refused to let the world watch her pain. She didn’t cry at the hospital when the doctors told them how he hadn’t made it through the surgery, she didn’t cry at the funeral, and she didn’t cry when the family finally returned home. And after a week of her family wallowing in the grief of her father’s unexpected death, Chrisjen was desperate to get away. 

If her mother had seemed more stable, Chrisjen would have left for her own apartment, but as it was, Chrisjen was afraid to leave her and didn’t trust her younger brothers to be able to manage their mother on their own. So she retreated to her father’s office. Inside, everything was calm and still in a way that was almost comforting. She could still smell his cologne, could almost sense his equable presence behind her. She sat down in his chair, sliding her fingers along the leather arms. Looking up, she gazed around the room. Her father would never sit here again, would never take a call from his staff, or check the NSE from his hand terminal. 

Chrisjen took a trembling breath, the loss hitting her anew. She blinked away tears, running a single fingertip delicately under each eye to catch any excess moisture before her makeup ran. Then her eyes fell on the statue of Atlas on the corner of the desk. She reached for it, taking it in her hands. It was heavier than she had expected. _How appropriate,_ she thought, with some amusement. But as she stared at the figure, she began to cry, the chasm of loss growing until it consumed her. Her Atlas was no longer there. He would never hold the world up for her again, nor for anyone else. She sucked in rough breaths in-between sobs, fingers clenching the statue tightly. She tried to wipe at her eyes again, and this time eyeliner smeared across the back of her hand. She hated to imagine how much of it was on her cheeks. But there was something cathartic in the release of her tears, and she finally understood her mother’s wallowing. 

But she knew crying wouldn’t actually help anything. _Stop it,_ she admonished herself. She forced out a long breath, and then another, until it had passed. 

You’ve got work to do. She set the statue back on the desk. 

_Someone’s got to hold things together._

3.

Chrisjen Avasarala was fifty-four, stuck in another interminable meeting, when she got the news. It was an otherwise very unremarkable day, simply the usual swamp of meetings, annoyed constituents, and obnoxious bureaucracy. 

At first, she didn’t realize the implications of what they were hearing. There had been an insurrection on Callisto - it was the only thing on the news feeds all day. Dirty Belter rebels had overthrown the legitimate UN governor and taken control of the colony. It had pushed off the strike in Gujarat and the food shortages in Tamil Nadu. 

As the day continued, more information started to come in. First, was the video released by the Skinnies, showing their execution of the governor, followed by a tiresome speech about Belter rights. As though they could wash the blood from their hands with the misdeeds of Earth. Then the UN began to release what they knew. Nothing specific, but big picture information, like where the Belters had taken control and what was still held by the UN. They assured the planet that it was only a matter of time before control was restored. 

Chrisjen was interested, but she wasn’t particularly worried. If anything, it was nice to have the attention elsewhere. Callisto was worlds away from her responsibility. But then she heard about the troop deployments. Her own work was limited to Earth, it had nothing to do with the rest of the solar system. So she had no reason to be kept abreast of the movements of the UN navy. She didn’t know that her son Charanpal’s unit was on Callisto until the rest of the planet did. 

She was still in a meeting when Arjun tried to call. She checked her hand terminal and found his urgent message, demanding she tell him if Charanpal was still alive. She flipped immediately to the news feeds and found the updates about the troop deployments. 

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. “Fuck,” she muttered louder. Scraping her chair against the floor, she left without preamble or explanation, unconcerned with the chorus of her fellow participants calling after her. 

The rest of the day was spent trying to cajole information from the UNN. They didn’t want to let the Skinnies know how successful they had been and how many deaths they had caused, so they refused to give death tolls or names. That would come later. But eventually, Chrisjen got a UNN general to tell her what she needed to know.

Charanpal’s battalion had been deployed to Callisto less than a month ago, in response to increased rumours of Belter action on the moon. They had engaged the rebels over Valhalla. Losses were significant. 

Charanpal Avasarala died with the rest of his unit that morning in the Egdir crater, on the northern side of Valhalla.

* * *

Something broke inside of Chrisjen. She was a woman who was used to having control over most situations. She wielded power when she had it, and when she couldn’t exert power directly, she manipulated the situation from behind the scenes. There was always an in. A thread to pull, a weakness to exploit. 

Until there wasn’t. 

Because there was nothing she could do about Charanpal. Even if there had been a way to get her hands into the situation at Callisto, it was too late for her son. She hadn’t even known where he was, what his unit was doing. 

Chrisjen sobbed alone in her office, too distraught to even return Arjun’s message. She knew her husband was panicked, but that was bliss compared to the truth. Maybe he could have a little longer to hold on to the hope that their son was still alive. 

Her makeup ran down her cheeks, but she was too upset to care. The guilt was almost overwhelming. In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing Charanpal, on his eighteenth birthday, telling her that he wouldn’t be joining the UNN after all. Chrisjen had been furious. Everyone in her family had served in some way, and she thought she had installed the value of public service in her son. 

Apparently not. 

So she’d done what seemed like the easiest way to get what she wanted: she’d told him she wouldn’t pay for his education unless he joined the UNN. With no money for university, he would have to put himself on the list for the lottery. A guarantee of a lifetime on basic. 

They’d shouted at each other for a week, Arjun as their exasperated and unsuccessful mediator. But eventually he’d given in, because she really hadn’t given him another option. The wave of guilt made her chest tighten painfully and she wanted to throw up. 

Her eyes fixated on the statue on the bookshelf opposite her desk - her father’s statue. The bronze gleamed in the light that streamed in through the windows. The figure of Atlas holding up the world on his shoulders.

Chrisjen burst forth and pulled the statue from the shelf, and without another thought, she threw it as hard as she could at the floor. The noise was terrible, a cacophonous racket of clanging and crashing at it hit the ground and bounced, breaking into increasingly smaller pieces. First, it broke in half, the Earth breaking away and taking Atlas’ hands with it. Then the arms broke off and the Earth splintered into pieces. 

Chrisjen was almost silent for some time, the only noise the sound of her ragged breathing. Then she fell to her knees, breaking once again into loud sobs. 

At some point, she wasn’t sure how long she had been on the floor, her hand terminal began to beep at her. She pulled it from a fold in her sari as she continued to cry and saw that it was Arjun calling again. Her crying began as if anew and she swiped to accept the call. 

Arjun’s voice was panicked, but she couldn’t focus long enough to make out the words. His question was clear enough. 

She couldn’t get many words out between the sobs, but her tears told him all he needed. His anguished cries were too much for her to take. The hand terminal tumbled from her fingers and she didn’t pick it up, instead sobbing into her hands. 

She was still on the floor when her aide came in to check on her, and she screamed at him. “Get the fuck out! What the fuck is wrong with you! Get the fuck out, you fucking piece of useless fucking shit!”

She was still on the floor when Arjun arrived, face tear-stained and arms opened. He reached for her with the desperation of a drowning man clawing his way to the surface. They cried together in one another’s arms and Chrisjen wasn’t aware she had said anything until Arjun responded, stroking her hair and telling her it wasn’t her fault.

* * *

It was months before life began to feel even the slightest bit normal again. Years before the grief had faded into the background. There would never be a day that she didn’t think about it. 

And despite Arjun’s comforting platitudes, she could never completely accept that he didn’t blame her, in part, for Charanpal’s death. Every once and a while the implication would be raised in the middle of a heated argument. But the mention of Charanpal was enough to end any fight so it was just never discussed further. And so life continued. 

She knew Ashanti blamed her. Arjun defended her when their daughter accused her of getting Charanpal killed, but it seemed half-hearted. 

But as impossible as it had seemed at the time, life did continue. It never went back to “normal,” but it changed. More of it was filled by the mundane necessities of life and work, and less wallowing in guilt and memories of her son. And it didn’t end. 

Two years later, she was promoted from district governor to a position in Executive Administration. 

And life continued. Because it had to. 


End file.
